


Leatherbound

by blackpink_writes



Category: BLACKPINK (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/F, Gen, Heavy Angst, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Suicide, Tumblr: blackpink-writes, Violence, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 20:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17946365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackpink_writes/pseuds/blackpink_writes
Summary: When an impulsive decision left you with nothing but regrets, your attempt to fix your mistake only seals your fate.





	Leatherbound

**Author's Note:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE, VIOLENCE*
> 
> Y/N = [your name]  
> L/N = [last name]
> 
> leave a comment/kudos!

The first time you found the notebook, you didn’t open it.

The house, long since vacated by its previous owners, had been sitting on your street corner unoccupied for quite some time. As far as you knew, it had been empty for at least as long as you had been alive. You’d been dared by some of the older kids to go inside many times, but always scoffed at them and threw it back in their faces— _“Why don’t you go, instead? There’s nothing to be scared of, right?”_ This time, though, you came of your own accord and stood outside the door for many minutes. There was nobody to give you the final push to do it; you just did.

So there you were, your feet glued to the hardwood floor of the foyer as you warily eyed a chandelier hanging a meter above your head, swinging despite the lack of air circulation in the house. You thought nothing of it, however, and shoved it to the back of your mind as you closed the door behind you. Your footfalls echoed with uncanny volume as you took your first true steps into the home.

There was nothing of note within the entryway other than a staircase that led into a roughened wall and a hallway you couldn’t see beyond its corner, and an old Victorian table left by the banister. Bits of glass were strewn about and crunched under the soles of your shoes, though you were unsure what they would have come from. Innumerable shreds of paper littered the floor everywhere you went and appearing to be pages from handwritten books or journals, further supporting your suspicion that the house was older than it looked.

Everything seemed to fall into gray-scale as you moved through the home, twists and turns becoming more and more common as you explored further; you briefly thought to yourself that it should have been impossible for those halls to be so maze-like in their composition when the house was nowhere near large enough to accommodate for all the walking you’d done. Windows filtered with dusty, pale light, and you felt a strange sense of foreboding—as though some presence had coiled its way around your neck and was waiting for just the right moment to tighten the noose.

On the second floor, you encountered a door left ajar. It was unusual; all the other doors in the home had been boarded up or locked. Naturally, you opened the door, cringing as it creaked in response to even the barest of touches. When it sat open, knob tapping lightly against the wall, you could scarcely believe what you saw.

It was in immaculate condition. Everything—from the wood to the wallpaper, bedspread to pillow—was clean. The things that littered the top of a lone desk, sitting just below the sill of the single window in the room, were placed in an orderly fashion that reminded you immediately of your mother’s own meticulous habits. A small, circular rug sat in the center of the bare floor, knit in a style that was so dated you couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen one like it.

When you crossed the threshold, the space seemed to become colorful. The light that filtered through the window was the color of a pale rose and bathed everything in an eerie glow. It didn’t put you anymore at ease than the presence that seemed to latch tighter to you the longer you stayed, unwelcome.

And then, the notebook caught you eye. Stepping closer to the desk, you wondered how you might have missed a worn, leatherbound journal sitting amidst the carefully placed pencils and hardcover books on its surface. You reached forward and touched the cover, blanketed by thick dust unlike every other object in the room, and swiped a thumb over the embossed ridges in the center. It was a symbol—nothing you recognized, but somehow familiar. A tree; one whose roots spread below and curved upward to join with its branches. Perhaps meant to convey the circle of life, or something similar. You noticed, however, that the right side of the circle was broken by a wrinkle in the leather, or perhaps a cut made intentionally. You had no way of knowing.

You shifted your fingers, moving them beneath the back cover to get a better look and feel for the mesmerizing object, when a sudden chill spread over your hands and arms. Your eyes widened and heart jumped into your throat, but you stood stock still. The color in the room faded, dust that hadn’t been there previously settled over everything—even you. You tore your eyes away from the journal and chanced a look around, seeing none of the neatly kept bedroom you’d been standing in moments ago.

As if on cue, a wave of cold air spread over your back and you felt very acute discomfort even through your clothes. The sensation spread to your waist, as though a pair of ice-cold arms were locked around you. It felt like something was embracing you. The arms drew tighter around you, sending waves of cold and pain through your torso. A whisper—or what sounded much like one—passed over the skin of your ear and you shivered. There was no mistaking it—you knew deep in your gut that whatever this was, it was not human.

With a ragged breath, you slowly set the journal back in its place.

You left the house, then, leaving the exit half open behind you. You didn’t answer your parents when they asked where you’d been. Your eyes were still wide, even as you sat at your desk several hours later, staring at the old home through your window.

 

* * *

 

The incident had haunted you for several months after the fact. So much so, that you had nightmares about it for three of those months. It was a rare occurrence that you didn’t wake up in a cold sweat, the feeling of a rope bathed in freezing water still lingering on your throat. The fear that gripped you was so tangible that you had trouble breathing. On many occasions, it took you several minutes to calm yourself to the point where you could get under your comforter again.

Slowly but surely, though, the fear that lingered in your mind ebbed away and genuine curiosity was borne from it.

At the library, after a particularly long study session, you decided to research the symbol you’d seen on the book.

As it turned out, you’d been correct—in a sense, anyway—about the meaning. You discovered that the tree was Celtic; a Druid representation of the link between heaven and earth. It was supposed to be a stylized representation of an oak tree, sacred to the Celts, and a door to the other world. What the “other world” was supposed to be, you never found out. You assumed they meant ‘world of the dead.’

Even dissatisfied with what you’d learned, you felt it best not to test your own weariness any further and began your walk home, dropping your books in their respective baskets haphazardly on your way out.

It was no small coincidence that you passed the house on your route back. But, like every other time, you ignored it.

Given what you’d learned, you didn’t want to go back if you could help it.

 

* * *

 

You didn’t visit the house again for a year.

There was no reason to. You hadn’t forgotten what happened, but it crept to the back of your mind as life began to catch up with you. Winter break was nearing, universities were mailing you back with acceptance letters, and finals were just around the corner.

Sitting at your kitchen table, parents both picking at their food like teenagers, you were desperate for some kind of distraction from the boring, idle conversation you were currently engaged in. So, without really thinking it through, you stood up and dumped the contents of your plate into the trash, placed your dishes in the sink, and grabbed your hoodie all in the span of a few moments.

“Dear, where are you going?” your mother called just as you pulled the back door open.

You mumbled something about fresh air and stepped out into the crisp, late autumn breeze before they could protest.

You were halfway down the street before you gave the idea a second thought. The idea of returning did _not_ sit well with you, but you had to know what it was that kept drawing you to that place. As the run-down home crept into your vision, the details becoming sharper with each stride you took, you thought about how it felt much like there was something missing. Something that was taken from you a year ago. You wanted it back.

So when you once again found yourself inside the poor excuse of a house, you didn’t dally. Marching up the stairs and turning sharply into the dark hallway, you were stopped by something.

A light, dim yet noticeable, emanated from within the room you’d been drawn to twelve months prior.

You surged forward, throwing the door open recklessly; you were met with nothing but the same darkness that had begun to blanket the world outside and a wisp of smoke trailing from a freshly burnt wick.

Your eyes were drawn to the candle that remained half-burned on the surface of the desk, wax dripping to the floor and forming fragile stalactites where it had cooled before gravity could claim it. The book was not in its place. Instead, it sat in the center of the floor, the knit rug tossed to the side and forgotten.

You didn’t need to wonder why it lay where it did for long, for as you approached you noticed a circle.

You recognized it as the Druid Tree, carved into the surface of the wood.

The journal sat in the middle, placed in the thinnest part of the tree trunk. You hesitated, but stepped beyond the outer rim of the circle, kneeling before the leather book and reaching out to it. Slowly, your fingers curled around the edges of the worn hide and lifted it gently into your palms. You felt no different this time.

Emboldened, you untied the thin leather twine that bound the journal shut and opened it. A name was splayed across the inside cover, worn and hardly legible, but still there.

_Lisa._

Curious, you leafed through the pages until you reached what you thought to be the first entry. Your eyes passed over the words once. Then twice. The third time, you were dumbfounded. Their implications were either one terrible excuse for a joke, or entirely real. Regardless of which was true, dread crawled unbearably slowly up your spine, and you dropped the journal before dashing out of the room and stumbling blindly down the stairs and through the door, not bothering to look back.

Dated one year ago, it read: _“Today, a young girl came into the house.”_

 

* * *

 

The journal somehow ended up in your possession a week later, which you’d realized as you rifled through your backpack looking for the folder that you’d stuffed your math assignments into.

Your hand stilled as it grazed over the surface, already intimately familiar with the way it felt under your fingertips. Unable to look, you simply ignored it and retracted your hand. With your intentions to do homework forgotten, you flopped onto your bed in hopes of falling asleep before any reminders of what you saw last time entered your mind.

The confusion that swirled in your mind was what eventually lulled you into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

When next you held the journal, it was winter break and you were curled up in your father’s recliner with a mug of hot cocoa. The offending object sat in your lap, open to the first entry, while you sipped gingerly on your piping hot drink.

_Today, a young girl came into the house._

Fear and bewilderment both festered in your stomach, and you scowled down at the thing like it was the reason for all of your troubles. To be fair—it was, and you knew it. Recently, since it had first appeared in your bag, you’d been getting less sleep. When you did sleep, you dreamed about the damnable book. Sometimes there were nightmares, too, but those were easily forgotten in the haze of sleep deprivation.

Your friends had noticed. Your teachers, too. You were more irritable, always glaring at something or someone. Your patience—something people always commended you on—wore thin at the slightest provocation. The smallest things put you on edge for weeks. Barely audible sounds in the dark kept you up on the worst nights.

Sometimes you’d find yourself in a trance.

It was odd. You could feel what you were doing when you would often stand there, staring at the book as it sat innocently on your hardwood desk. The trouble came when you would try to stop yourself from reaching for it, from opening the cover and rereading the first passage repeatedly, and you couldn’t. The moment your fingers began to stretch toward the corner of the page to turn it to the next entry, however, you always broke free. The book would slide from your hands as though they didn’t possess the strength to hold it, and your arms dropped to your sides limply.

There was no logical explanation for what was happening to you, or why. All you knew was that it had everything to do with this godforsaken journal.

 

* * *

 

By early February, you’d had enough.

Straight after school that Friday, you went back to the house. You trudged through heavy snow, ignoring the sensation of numb toes and cold feet as you approached the husk of a building. It was little more than a shack now, and in the time since your very first daring escapade inside of it, many of the windows had been shattered by vandals. You knew you couldn’t count on any sort of insulation other than your own coat. You would make it quick then, you decided. In and out; no delays, no distractions. You wanted to be home in time for a fresh meal.

Pushing your way around the door, you stepped into the home again.

It surprised you, honestly, how a bit of snow could make something look less sinister.

Snowdrifts littered the first floor, some of them gathered high enough and packed so tightly that they blocked doorways. The light that trickled through the broken glass seemed to hit the flakes in just the right way, for they shone around the space and bathed it in a peaceful white haze. When you moved, it was the only thing you could hear. All else was quiet.

You had often admired how snow seemed to cancel the sound around it, reducing the world to a peaceful silence when it appeared during the winters. On days quite like this one, you would sit outside and just watch the snow fall, and listen. Listen to the soft whistle of a barely there breeze, or listen to nothing at all—even as cars passed by and made not a sound. When that same effect was applied to this home, you found that it seemed far more majestic than anything else you’d encountered before. Even the shimmering crystal chandelier, hanging still from a frozen chain as you made your way up the stairs, managed to look as though it were carved from ice.

Realizing you’d already broken your own rule of distracting yourself, you shook your head and took the rest of the staircase two at a time.

You reached for the knob and turned it, but your body slammed into the door as your mind failed to comprehend the fact that _it wouldn’t budge_. You ended up on the floor, thoroughly addled as you stared at the cracked ceiling above you. And then, suddenly—

“Who’s there?”

Your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. You should have known better; every time you came back here, something happened that would have kept anyone else away. Each time it grew less subtle, so you’d expected _something_ when you showed up. _But a voice?_ No, that wasn’t on the list of things you’d anticipated.

“Who’s there?!” It was much more adamant this time, forceful and otherworldly.

The door was flung open, slamming into the wall and startling you so bad that your heart almost burst. Your head snapped upward and at first your eyes couldn’t focus on the figure standing there. Blinding white light washed over everything else in sight, casting a silhouette that seemed far too human for what you knew her to be.

Instead of confronting her or attempting to run—which you had learned from horror films _never to do_ —you reached into your bag and removed the journal. Her journal, you assumed.

You extended your arm in offering, and asked: “Is your name Lisa?”

The figure took several slow steps forward until you could make out a face. Small, doe-eyed, and frowning slightly. She stopped just short of you. Her nightgown billowed around her as though it were much too big for her frame, and she stared down at you through a sheer veil.

Everything around you stopped. Dust and snow were suspended mid-air. As you slowly released your grip on the book, you realized that it, too, was floating as though gravity no longer applied to it. Glancing around, you spotted the winter storm outside the window that had frozen in place.

It didn’t take long to realize that you, yourself had been affected by whatever was happening. You should have felt your heart beating a mile a minute, but instead there was a complete lack of a pulse. You tried to suck in a breath, but your lungs wouldn’t expand as you commanded them to. Panic began to well inside of you, but as you were you couldn’t do anything to quell it. You stared back up at her, waiting.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “I am Lisa.”

There was a sharp, painful tug in your chest, and you blacked out.

 

* * *

 

 

You’d learned once that humans had an uncanny ability to feel when they were being watched. Perhaps when scientists referred to a sixth sense, that was what they meant? Maybe your sixth sense was so strong that it extended into unconsciousness and woke you when nothing else did.

Your eyes opened to the grey ceiling, cracked and chipping just above your head as you lay on a neatly kept bed tucked into the corner of a familiar room. It didn’t take long for you to recognize it as the one from the abandoned house. You assumed that’s where you still were, hours later and freezing for lack of your coat and other layers. Your joints cracked with the effort of sitting up, back popping at uneven intervals and your neck _beyond_ stiff. Not only were you exhausted, but you felt as though you’d been lying in the same damn spot for ages.

When you finally felt normal enough to attempt the simple task of putting your legs over the side of the mattress, you realized that for whatever reason, your heart was still stopped, and you weren’t breathing. It didn’t bother or shock you like it had, but it caused you more discomfort than you’d ever admit to know that you were somehow alive without those two essential functions.

When you lifted your head, you noticed that everything was in the same state it had been in before you lost consciousness. Nothing but you was moving. Perhaps that’s why your body had left such a distinct imprint in the comforter of the bed, and why everything seemed to be much too cold.

“Are you feeling well?”

You dragged your eyes away from the diluted pallor of your skin and glanced to the doorway. Lisa stood there, with her white nightgown hanging just above the floor and veil no longer obscuring her face.

She was gorgeous. Almond-shaped eyes that reminded you of amber stones in the sunlight, a shy smile, and kiddish cheeks that made her look and feel less threatening to you. Of course, you still knew that somehow the state of things, both in this house and in your body was her doing. So you just nodded and turned your eyes away for fear she would read them. You wondered how long she had been watching you.

“I’m glad,” she continued softly as she moved toward you. She stopped just short of you, her ghostly toes the only thing you could see as you stared at the floor. “You were unconscious for quite some time.”

“Your doing,” you scoff, and she falls silent for a moment.

“Yes, you’re right.” You sucked in a surprised breath but said nothing. Once again, like minutes ago, you felt her gaze on you. “I had hoped you would return here.” You look up at her—for the first time acknowledging how tall she really is—and narrow your eyes in what you hope is a threatening stare.

“So you could have your book back?”

“Tis’ not mine anymore,” she replies with a smile. Completely unaffected by your bravado, she pulls the book out of thin air and holds it out to you. “It belongs to you.”

She must have found your lack of a response and noticeable skepticism funny, because she giggled softly as she set the journal in your lap before taking a step back. After a moment’s hesitation, you pulled back the front cover. Your name was there, etched into the leather next to hers, taunting you like some kind of sick joke.

“What is this?” you bark, the obvious accusation seeming to offend the spirit— _Lisa_ , you reminded yourself. “Did you do this?”

“No,” she answered, earnest. “‘Twas the book itself.”

“The book,” you mimed back to her. “The book wrote my name. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“In a way. Yes.”

You neglected to speak again after that. While you certainly felt much better than you had, there was a part of you that felt vulnerable. Like you had been violated. It was a sickness in your stomach that didn’t fade and the urge to wretch overpowered almost everything else—but nothing came up. So you swallowed the heaving sensations in your chest and murmured a quiet thank you as you brushed past Lisa— _strangely, you could feel a certain warmth to her as you did—_ and left.

 

* * *

 

Lisa followed you. You hadn’t noticed it at first, with the way school tended to become busy around the end of the year, but everyone else had.

The new girl, all fiery orange hair and toothy grins, took your graduating class by storm in the final months of your senior year. And she loved to follow you around.

At first, you thought it was because of the book. Perhaps she wanted you to return it to her, which you would have been happy to do if the book itself didn’t seem to have a mind of its own; every time you shoved it into her hands the book would reappear on the plain desk in your room. After several attempts, you gave up on it—as she had advised you to do, early on—and begrudgingly embraced her presence in your life.

What baffled you was that she was somehow living, after clearly _not_ being alive for a number of years. Even more confusing was that she had somehow picked up on the modern idiosyncrasies of teenage culture in mere weeks. You’d watched her become almost universally accepted by everyone who met her, even the people who you knew to be preppy and very selective. The entire school loved her. What was worse—her popularity influenced yours.

Every time you turned a corner with Lisa hanging on your arm, someone would give you a dreamy sigh or bat their lashes. It was almost like being friends with her had made you several times more attractive to everyone in school. You were also certain that Lisa was doing it on purpose. Many times you had been tempted to ask her to stop whatever it was that she was doing, but the shallower side of yourself that enjoyed the attention kept you from doing so. _What could be the harm?_ So you allowed it.

 

* * *

 

You certainly didn’t expect to find yourself opening that damnable journal and reading it for a second time.

The first entry was less intimidating, after you ventured further into its pages.

_“Today, the girl woke after a terrible night’s sleep. She dreamed of the house.”_

_“Today, she returned and came to the room again.”_

_“She has come back again. She attempted to return the journal, and has not moved since.”_

_“The girl has carried on as normal, this week. She’s almost forgotten—it won’t be long, now.”_

_“I’ve appeared again. This time, she seems ready to accept it. I hope she can.”_

You couldn’t help but feel violated upon seeing the words scrawled on the old pages. Perhaps Lisa had written them? But that would mean that she’d have been in possession of the book, even after you’d woken from the ordeal—and you knew that the book was somehow tied to you now, so that shouldn’t have been possible.

Another thing that left you bemused was the use of the pronoun “I.” It only occurred once so far in the entries, and you were unsure if it referred to Lisa or someone else. For your own sanity, you hoped it was Lisa.

“Y/N!”

_Speak of the devil._ “Yeah?”

“I brought you the homework from Psychology,” she answered as she rounded the corner, an almost comically thick stack of papers in her hands. Even though you were watching, you still found yourself startled as it rattled everything on your desk with a loud _thump!_ “Your mom also told me to bring you down for dinner.”

“Wow, that seems a little light compared to what we normally get,” you scoff, barely trying to hide your sarcasm as Lisa giggled.

“I know,” she agreed with a sigh. “He’s a stickler for homework.”

“Always has been,” you mused with a glare at the papers. “So where were you, then? I’m sure it didn’t take you two hours just to get these to me.” Lisa raised her eyes to your open window, as if just noticing that the sun was setting and it was, indeed, well after school hours. Her gaze flitted between the multicolored sky and your eyes.

“Oh, just… somewhere.” Lisa seemed reluctant to explain. Her smile faltered for only a split second before she was poking at you with a waggling brow. “Why? Worried I’ll leave you for someone else?”

“Uhm, gross?” you drawl, scrunching your face and leaning as far away from her as you could. You hated the fact that her words resonated with you in a way you didn’t understand. “If I had to guess, _you’re_ the one with a thing for _me._ ” Lisa laughed and pinched your ear.

“Oh, shut up—you know you love it. Now come on, it’s time to eat.” She grabbed your forearm and pulled you from your chair, refusing to look back at you as you protested.

You could have sworn that, as you passed from your own room and into the hallway, you heard Lisa mumble something else under her breath—something sad and dejected.

You never asked her to repeat it.

 

* * *

 

New entries began appearing every day after that.

The journal was reading your mind, in a way, because the words spelled out things you didn’t even realize you felt until you read it.

_“I think she is upset. I don’t know why—I can’t bring myself to ask.”_

True to the journal’s words, you had begun to feel something different about the way Lisa acted toward you. It was certainly subtle, but still there.

The way her smile dimmed as your friends approached you. The way she would wind her arm almost unconsciously around your waist as groups of enamored students drew closer in the halls. As graduation neared and girls and boys became bolder, she would shut them down before they even had a chance to speak. Every time you left to be on your own, there was a sadness in her eyes that you didn’t—couldn’t—comprehend.

Naturally, she tried to hide these things. She didn’t want you to know how upset she was, whether it was your fault or not. It left you frustrated for a number of reasons.

First and foremost, you’d come to rely on Lisa’s presence as somewhat of a constant in your life. It was reassuring to have her there when you needed to vent or wanted a hug.

Secondly, Lisa had moved in with you just days after showing up, becoming something of a second daughter to your parents. Your mother, especially, loved her. She’d even pulled you aside after dinner once to ask if the two of you were dating. You’d adamantly refused and stuttered something about how you were “just friends” before you stomped upstairs and buried your nose in projects and notes. It was impossible for you to go a day without seeing one of her forced smiles or hearing a poorly thought out excuse as to why she didn’t want to spend time with you.

Lastly, you’d begun to notice some unwanted feelings. The kind that tumbled around nervously in your chest when she was near. The sort that would leave you decidedly unable to speak properly every time she complimented you. There were times where your skin would burn at her touch and you’d feel it for hours afterward.

Of course, much the same way Lisa had refused to tell you why she was upset, you swore never to admit this to her.

You didn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Lisa came back late one night—and she didn’t use the door.

It had been storming fiercely that night, and Lisa left hours earlier without a word of explanation. You’d watched her walk down the street and disappear into the shadows that surrounded the old, decrepit home.

Unable to fall asleep with worry bubbling in your stomach, you lay quietly in your bed with the comforter pulled all the way up to your chin and an uncharacteristic pout on your face.

It wasn’t like her to leave without a word. You knew Lisa’s personality like the back of your own hand by now—kind, spunky, childish to a fault, and just a little _too_ good at giving advice. It was very unlike her to skulk off in the middle of the night to visit the house that you’d assumed she’d been trapped in for a very long time. However much this behavior seemed odd to you, there was no way you’d have been able to dissuade her, even if you’d worked up the guts to try. More than anything else, you’d learned that Lisa was utterly creepy when she was like this; when she would disappear for hours and return looking like she’d witnessed a mass murder.

It reminded you of the trances that had become much more frequent as of late. At times, you couldn’t even remember them. Often you woke with bruises or cuts you didn’t remember receiving. Perhaps, to a certain degree, that’s what was happening to her?

You didn’t have time to ponder that theory any farther, however, because without warning, another bright flash of lightning erupted just beyond the glass of your window and Lisa was there, in your room, soaking wet. Her shoulders were hunched and shaking, and you were maybe a little too shocked to hear her muffled weeping as the thunder rolled in a moment later.

You almost fell when you launched yourself from your bed and took all of two steps before she was shaking in your embrace. Your arms rested gently on her shoulders and you hummed softly in her ear as she began to sob openly against your neck. Her arms wrapped themselves tightly around your back with an almost childish desperation for comfort, and you felt a lump of utter empathy form in your throat.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, careful to keep your voice quiet. She just shifted in your arms and drew herself impossibly close.

The two of you stayed like that for a long time. The minutes blurred together into what felt like hours, and the storm didn’t let up. Neither did Lisa’s tears. It was concerning, to say the least.

It wasn’t much longer before a muffled, “I fucked up,” was drawn from her hoarse throat. You couldn’t respond to that; not effectively, anyway. It was such a vague statement, and coupled with Lisa’s vague actions, it didn’t help matters.

Instead, a mumbled, “What?” was all that could be drawn from your confusion. Lisa’s fiery mane was suddenly all you could see, hands pinning your wrists to the bed all you could feel. Somehow, she’d wrestled you to the sheets and ended up straddling you. Despite the context of the sudden move and the fact that it left you thoroughly flustered, you kept your eyes glued to her. You didn’t move.

“They told me not to get involved,” Lisa whispered above you. Her grip was strong and her hands were shaking. When you finally found the courage to look past the curtain of disheveled hair that hid her face, you were blindsided by how stricken she looked. It was as though someone or something had taken away everything she’d ever loved in the blink of an eye. “They told me to stay out of it; not to become attached. But I fucked up and -”

“Lisa, what is this about?” You asked her, voice stern, eyes searching for _something_ to latch onto that could make her feel better.

“I didn’t listen to them! They were right but I still got too emotionally invested in this and -”

“What do you mean by ‘this?’” Your question seemed to stop Lisa in her tracks. She looked at you, wide-eyed, grip slackening and mouth hanging open like she wanted to answer but couldn’t. She screwed her eyes shut and lowered her forehead to your chest. Her arms seemed to lose their strength, so her hands released yours and instead rested on your shoulders.

“I mean…” Lisa paused to breathe, to allow herself a moment, before: “You.”

“Me?” You weren’t certain you understood, but there was an undeniable spark of hope in your gut that made your face burn.

“You,” Lisa repeated, fingers curling around the swell of each shoulder gently. You knew what she meant, and nodded slowly.

“And… who are ‘they’?” you asked, wary of the answer. Lisa took a long second to acknowledge the question, before she finally rolled to the side and lay next to you on the bed with a sigh.

“I can’t tell you,” was all that she said. You scowled but didn’t press further.

“That’s fine.” Inwardly, you were glad it would remain a secret. You had a feeling in the back of your mind that you didn’t want to know who or what it was that Lisa was referring to. It was convenient, though, that all thought of continuing the conversation left your mind the second Lisa curled her arms around you and snuggled into your side the same way a scared puppy would. She was sound asleep in moments.

You never asked about it again.

 

* * *

 

Lisa insisted, after her breakdown, that she take you somewhere fun.

After days of her whining, poking, and prodding, you agreed. The both of you settled on an amusement park not far from your town, and although you were disinclined to go, Lisa had persuaded you.

Upon arrival, she dragged you to _every single ride_ , more than once. The both of you rode the go-karts and bumper cars more than six times. Lisa spent hours in the arcade beating every high score and winning tickets so fast that the machines could hardly keep up with her. Kids and parents alike watched in awe as she dominated at DDR. You stood with your arms crossed proudly over your chest, cotton candy in hand, and leaned over to the lady next to you with a sly smirk.

“That’s my girl.”

“I’m sorry?” she snapped, taking a step back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. “Your girl?”

“My friend,” you corrected stiffly, suddenly aware of what you’d said—and to a stranger, no less. You were sure your ears burned pink with embarrassment as the woman nodded slowly and herded her two small kids away. Lisa finished her run soon after, leaping from the podium like a child and bouncing up to you excitedly.

“Did you _see_ that?” she chirped, eyes shining. You couldn’t help but smile, and ruffled her hair.

“You beat the shit out of it! Those kids won’t even know what hit them.” Your praise seemed to lift her spirits impossibly higher, and she squealed.

“I’m glad you think so—I don’t think anyone will be breaking that record anytime soon,” she bragged, dragging you from the domed building and back into the fairgrounds. You didn’t need to ask to know where she was taking you next. Daylight was waning, twilight setting in. The park would be closed soon, you knew, and Lisa had avoided one particular ride all day.

You were miffed, obviously, that they wouldn’t let you take your food on the ferris wheel. In line, in front of several strangers, you’d been forced to stuff your face with cotton candy while Lisa tried to down the rest of the kettle corn. By the time both of you sat across from one another in a basket, you almost felt sick from the sheer volume of sugar in your system. Lisa, who’d gotten the better end of the deal, laughed at you on the ascent.

“I told you that would happen,” she pointed out, once again reminding you why you’d refused to take her here in the first place. Being there brought out her inner child, just like you knew it would. Instead of entertaining her amusement further you just groaned and flipped her off.

The ferris wheel was quite massive, so the journey to the top was longer than you’d anticipated. By the time you neared the peak of the ride, you were feeling much better and Lisa was half asleep. Taking a moment to admire her features, you couldn’t help but think of how much younger she looked, curled up against the side of the bench with her cheek flush against her shoulder. You smiled, allowing some small bit of the feelings you’d hidden from the girl to show in the way it reached your eyes.

For better or worse, you didn’t care how mysterious she’d been with you. Enough time spent with her had let you understand that Lisa was just as nuanced and confusing as any other person. Even if she wasn’t, per se, a _person._ But you saw her that way, so what did it matter? Technicalities had no place in what you were beginning to realize was more than just a crush. So, in terms you very much enjoyed using, fuck it. Everyone has secrets, and Lisa could keep hers for as long as she felt necessary. The only thing you wanted was to be there with her.

Prompted by an overpowering urge, you reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and she stirred.

“Hmm?” Her eyes fluttered open, landing on you instantly.

“Time to get up,” you joked. Lisa scoffed and lazily swatted your shoulder.

“Shut up,” she replied. It was hard to take her seriously when her voice was still thick with sleep and she could hardly hold back a yawn. You didn’t hold back your single snort of laughter, deciding it was worth the second hit to your shoulder when she smiled blearily.

“Well, I thought you’d like to know.” You caught her attention and she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Know what?” she slurred, blinking at you. You gestured behind her with a raised brow, and she turned her head.

“We’re at the top,” you concluded, stating the obvious. Lisa let out a prolonged sound of amazement, and you smiled again.

_“Wow!”_ she exclaimed, quite nearly leaning over the side of the basket. “Breathtaking,” she commented as though critiquing a piece of art. “Y/N, you’re seeing the same thing I am, right?”

“Yep,” you answered. Laughter bubbled from within when Lisa turned to you with brightest expression you’d seen from any one person; smile wide and eyes even wider.

“This is awesome! Isn’t the view gorgeous?”

There was a moment—just one—where time seemed to slow. It wasn’t because of Lisa, at least not directly. But as your focus zeroed in on her, pointing to the sunset, laughing, smiling, and being happy, there was something that seemed to click within you. _This must be what it feels like,_ you mused. You leaned back in your seat, sure that your expression said it all.

Without taking your eyes off her, you whispered, “It is.”

 

* * *

 

The end of the year, and graduation, passed by quickly.

Somehow, Lisa was allowed to walk at graduation even when she had no actual transcripts or grades. You kept it to yourself, but you knew it was because of whatever powers she had that they were absolutely convinced she was a graduate with distinction and gave her a medal and cords to walk with. They even had a diploma ready and waiting for her.

That day was easy. It was easy to say goodbye to the friends you promised to stay in touch with but knew you wouldn’t, easy to say goodbye to teachers you both loved and hated. It was easy to dismiss it all when it was over, even though it felt like the biggest moment of your life as it was happening.

The months that followed were not easy.

Universities continued to send you letters of acceptance, letters of decline, pamphlets, scholarship opportunities, and the like. Even when you’d already chosen the university you wanted to go to, they arrived nonstop with every visit of the mail delivery man. And that also meant that Lisa was being stubborn.

She wanted to spend every moment with you, but your busy-bodied habits kept you preoccupied almost all the time. And when you were free, you were napping. At first, she didn’t let on how much it bothered her. She’d slip into your space for an hour or two at times; trick you into watching movies with her, or going downtown for coffees and lunch. It became routine for her to disturb your college preparations.

During your orientation, Lisa insisted on sitting-in for every session. She would nod right along with you, watch as you took dutiful notes on supplies needed, textbooks to be bought, and the like.

When you were herded into a room with kids from the same area of study and told to begin registering for classes, Lisa peered over your shoulder the entire time. Occasionally, she’d point to a course and ask what material it covered—as though she expected to enroll herself one day.

Weeks later when you finally met your academic advisor, Lisa waited outside her office until you were done with the meeting. While you were glad for the space, she was forthcoming in admitting that she’d eavesdropped. The entire way home she proceeded to give you advice on how to structure your schedule around the commute to class each day.

When you began packing your things, Lisa’s attitude changed.

She was no longer excited for the next chapter of your life. She didn’t want to be involved with the planning. She didn’t go shopping with you and your parents to find decorations for your dorm room.

Every time college was brought up at the dinner table, she would excuse herself to sulk upstairs. Each time she caught you looking at your uni’s webpage, she would leave in a huff. Whenever you wanted to talk about classes and how soon college would begin, she would ignore you. There was no accepting it for her. You knew why, but you still found yourself bewildered.

Since the exchange the two of you had that night, both her feelings and your own had become clear to you. Of course, there were still the obvious questions. Why was Lisa here, as a part of your life? What happened to her before you came into the picture? What did all of it have to do with that damn book? Still, you _knew_ that what you felt for her was, in no uncertain terms, love. It was a softer realization than you thought it would be; not at all like the ton of bricks most people described it as. To you it felt light as a feather, landing in the palm of your hands—fragile, beautiful, and in need of protection.

You suspected—or rather, knew—that this was the reason both you and Lisa were hesitant to talk about your inevitable time apart.

Over the many months she had been with you as a part of your everyday life, you’d become attuned to one another’s moods. When one was upset, so was the other. When one was irritated, the other would be just as prickly. So, you were just as frustrated with Lisa as she was with you.

You never told her this.

 

* * *

 

When the time came for you to prepare to move away from home, you weren’t ready.

There were some kids who became hysterical at the thought of leaving home, and some who were all too confident about living their own independent lives. You were somewhere in between. You weren’t ready, but you were at the same time. Fidgeting hands, eyes that couldn’t focus on anything, a mind that wandered every few moments—these were the symptoms you felt as your time drew nearer and nearer.

Nervous energy filled the room, your stomach turning every time you thought about the upcoming days of packing, unpacking, packing again, organizing your room for your parents to use as they saw fit, and so on. The one thing you absolutely refused to think about was saying goodbye to Lisa.

Your frustration with her had ebbed into a melancholy rhythm of uncomfortable silence and lingering stares. She seemed to feel the same as you. Rather than burying herself in work like you had, though, she chose to spend the remaining time before the move with you. Even if that time was spent in silence. So there she was, sitting on the corner of your bed next to you as you rifled through the same box for the third time trying to find your favorite sweatshirt.

You grumbled to yourself as you got up from the mattress and moved from box to box, container to container, searching for the _damn_ thing. It’s not like it could have grown a pair of legs and fucking walked down the street, right? So you kept yourself occupied by the fact that you couldn’t find your favorite piece of clothing, rather than thinking about the girl who sat on your bed and watched you carefully.

You never told Lisa how it felt like she was staring into your soul, or how her gaze, then, had burned like ice.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days before you were supposed to move out, Lisa cornered you.

In your now empty room, completely devoid of every box and knick-knack you owned, you sat on the lonely bed. Your phone was of little interest to you, yet you scrolled through your most used apps anyway, mindlessly liking, favoriting, and commenting. It had become routine for you, in the last few days, to sit alone in your room with nothing to occupy your thoughts but filtered photos of your friends, heartfelt statuses wishing others well in uni, and Lisa.

She’d been on your mind far too often for you to function properly. When you saw her, you’d duck behind a wall or table, hoping she wouldn’t see you. When she asked to talk, you mumbled an excuse and locked yourself away. You knew you’d need to speak to her eventually—about whatever the hell it was that was between you. But you didn’t think you were ready for that conversation. You didn’t want to confront what had been in the back of your mind since the moment you found the journal. So you avoided her every chance you had.

You didn’t have an opportunity to get away this time.

The door to your room, which for some reason you’d left wide open in a thoughtless moment of laziness, suddenly slammed shut. Startled, you dropped your phone and yelped, immediately spotting Lisa with her back against the wood and arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her expression—one brow raised, and mouth drawn in a thin line of annoyance—told you there was no escaping her this time.

“We need to talk,” she demanded. Your throat went dry at her accusatory tone. You bent to pick up your undamaged phone and set it gingerly on the window sill, before turning to her and patting the space next to you on the bed. Lisa sneered. “I can stand, thanks.”

“I can see that,” you retorted. Lisa visibly bristled at your sarcasm, but you ignored it. “Do you really want to have a conversation from across the room?”

“Like I said, I can stand.” Lisa glared at you, and you narrowed your own eyes right back at her.

“Fine,” you relent with a sigh. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You know.” Lisa’s matter-of-fact observation stung like a needle to every nerve in your body. She was right—you did know.

“Then say what you wanna say,” you told her after a brief moment of hesitation. Your face may have been calm, but your balled fists and whitened knuckles spoke volumes to your discomfort. Lisa knew this, noticed it, and took the opportunity you’d given her.

“I know you’re avoiding me on purpose. I know you don’t want to talk about my -” She caught herself, biting her tongue before she corrected her misstep. “ _Our_ feelings. But we have to figure this out, or we’ll both regret it.” Lisa gazed at you for a long moment, and you squirmed under her scrutiny.

“You’re right,” you said quietly. Your fists uncurled and you took a long moment to stare at the floor.

“I always am,” she agreed. You may have been overthinking it, but there was a hint of a smile to her voice that acted as a balm to your frayed nerves. “I didn’t want to talk about it either, at first. But you’ll be gone soon, and I have to say this.”

You opened your mouth to stop her, to keep these feelings from being forced into the open, but Lisa held up a stern, patient hand, and you froze.

“I love you.” She’d spoken those words with such conviction, such _passion_ , that you believed her. _God,_ did you believe her.

“Why?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself as unshed tears stung behind your eyes. Lisa grimaced, glowering at the floor for a drawn out second before she sighed and allowed herself to smile.

“I shouldn’t,” she admitted almost guiltily. “But I do. There was something captivating about you. There still is. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh a little too hard, how you mumble in your sleep like a little kid. You’re quiet, and yet that speaks volumes about you as a person. You were so inquisitive when you ventured into the house for the first time. And even before that, I knew you watched it with curiosity. You always intrigued me.”

“How long did you watch me?” you asked. Your throat was tight with emotions long buried. Lisa turned her eyes to the ceiling in thought before she smiled softly. You couldn’t help but adore the way her cheeks bunched when she did.

“Since you were young,” she answered honestly. “I’ve watched you grow; mature into a capable woman. I’ve even been allowed to guide you for some time. It’s a privilege I’ve taken for granted until now, when we must part ways soon.”

“Lisa,” you murmured, unsure of how to feel about the revelation. _No wonder I’d always felt protected when I was a kid_. “It’s not forever. I won’t be gone forever.” Words meant to be reassuring ended up sounding desperate; like a plea waiting to be heard.

Instead of nodding, or accepting your words, Lisa just shook her head and offered a meek smile.

“We can only hope.”

Lisa didn’t turn to look back at you as she left you speechless in the dusk-lit bedroom.

You didn’t go after her.

 

* * *

 

The day before you were supposed to leave, Lisa asked to meet you at the house with the book.

She wanted to meet you in the bedroom where you’d first encountered her, which at this point was the only thing in the house not boarded off.

In the time since your most recent daring escapade into the house, the state of things was far more deteriorated. The walls were almost coming down, the floorboards curling up, and the upper floors heaving as they fought against the pull of gravity that would eventually take them. There was a draft that felt much colder than it had even in the winter, and you—in your t-shirt and not at all equipped to be in temperatures lower than the summer average—shivered almost uncontrollably as you ascended the rickety stairs.

The foyer was littered with splintered planks and broken glass. Notably, the table that had stood by the foot of the stairs near the banister was broken, its marble top shattered by some unknown blunt force. Several of the stairs now bore holes in the wood that led into a black abyss beneath the staircase that you’d rather not explore. Bulbs in the sconces on the wall remained an ashen grey, as useless as any electrical wiring inside the decrepit place would have been. Old paintings that you’d never noticed before boasted tears in their canvasses or broken frames, and hung precariously by one corner. What stood out the most to you, however, was the chandelier. It no longer hung from its silvered chain, but lay shattered on the hardwood floor just inside the entrance. Pieces of finely carved crystal and glass had flown far across the space, some even ending up outside of the home on account of its vandalized windows.

Despite how unnerved you were, the book remained firm in your grip. The leather cover provided some small comfort, at least—in contrast to the knife Lisa had also advised you to bring, which made you very uncomfortable as it sat in your pocket.

As you rounded the corner and spotted the warm glow from within the room, just close enough to make out the small flicker of a tiny flame, your body sagged in relief. Your steps grew surer as you approached, and you opened the door to allow yourself entry. A welcome warmth washed over your body, as though you’d passed through some sort of barrier that shut out everything aside from this room and its occupants.

Your blood ran cold, however, when you spotted Lisa—hands and feet stiff, body swaying, eyes wide, with a rope pulled taut around her broken neck.

Your mind short circuited. You screamed. You dropped the book. Your hands flew to the sides of your head and you dropped to your knees, unable to comprehend what you were seeing. Something inside of you broke. Perhaps it was your unbeating heart that had lain dormant for so long, finally cracking under the weight of your regret. Suddenly, your throat felt tight, and heaving sobs escaped you as you finally began to understand what you’d walked into.

For the first time since your initial encounter with the entity known as Lisa, your heart began to beat, and you could breathe again. But it was painful, _oh_ so very painful, to only be able to do so after a grievous loss. Sharp, agonizing pain lanced through your torso at the slightest movements. Every breath felt like a dance of fire and ice. Every beat of your heart was met with an anguish that pushed back in equal measure. Your senses dimmed, your eyes clenched shut. Your ears rang, deafening you to the sound of your own screams as they tore from your ragged throat.

You absentmindedly fished the knife from your pocket and stood in a rush, dragging a chair to where Lisa hung and snapping the rope furiously. It took all of your remaining strength to keep her body from falling heavily to the wood beneath. You knelt slowly, Lisa’s head cradled in your arms, and stared at nothing as tears soaked your cheeks and trailed along the dip of your jaw.

Handwritten words swam in your mind.

_“She’s been living a lie.”_

_“Everything will fall apart.”_

_“Something given, something taken.”_

_“Your heart is the prize.”_

_“Beware.”_

That’s right. You’d finished reading the journal. None of it was sensible. Most of the words had been mindless babble after the first pages. But hidden in the gibberish had been signs. _Warnings._ You didn’t think much of them, then. Still didn’t. But you’d recalled them; recalled the book.

The _book._

It still sat next to your knees partially opened. Your anger flared, and with a tear-streamed face you ripped it from its place in your lap and tossed it aside. There, it landed—within the circle carved into the floor, jagged and splintered. Blinded—you were blinded by anger, grief. Pent up emotions you’d refused to show to Lisa, who now lay lifeless in your arms. Everything you’d wished to say to her died on your tongue, instead released in a feral snarl as you leaped for the leather journal, knife gripped fiercely in your hand.

The moment the blade connected with the cover, piercing through the center of the druid tree, a pain like white-hot iron erupted in your chest. You gasped in shock, vision blurred, and voice gone. You clawed at your shirt, feeling skin tear under your nails as blood coated the palm of your hand. Still, you twisted the knife. You scored the cover more times than you could count, tore pages, shredded the journal in its entirety. More than once the knife gashed into your skin, tearing through muscles and tendons and rendering several fingers useless. Still, you persisted. The knife was dulled by the time you were even mildly satisfied with the carnage that littered the room.

Your body may as well have been molten by that point. Fire burned in every crevice of your body: behind your eyes with tears of magma, in your heart with blood that boiled and seared your veins. Sticky sweat coated your face and neck, and you found yourself aching from the pain of flames. There was nothing that could sate it—and you didn’t fucking care.

Lisa, as you knew her, was gone. There was no other presence in the home anymore. You were all that was left.

There was confusion in the back of your mind.

You didn’t recall carving a crude representation of the tree into your left palm, nor did you remember gathering the scraps of paper into your arms and stumbling down the hallway with them. You vaguely remembered the sensation of flinging them over the bannister, watching them scatter like leaves in late autumn. You saw light, dim and red, and watched for many moments as the rays of twilight moved along the walls with their own steady paths. The sight of blood smeared along the walls, scattered along the floor, the feeling of your life seeping from your body betwixt shaking fingers as you crumpled to the floor beside Lisa’s body—that was what you knew was real.

There were minutes—hours, even—that seemed to have disappeared as your mind weaved in and out of consciousness. Maybe you’d been lost somewhere along the way. Maybe a part of you still lingered somewhere you couldn’t see, or with _someone_ you couldn’t see.

A faint hope rose in your mind, quelled just as quickly as it came. Your last memory was of a sweet smile and a newborn’s cry.

Your heart was the prize. Lisa had won.

 

* * *

 

Once again, you stood unmoving by the window.

In the years since your death, much had happened.

Your family reported you missing just hours after you passed. Within two days your body was found beside hers, hunched over itself and mangled by a dull knife. The official causes of death reported by local news was loss of blood from multiple knife wounds and asphyxiation by hanging. Further inspection of your body revealed extensive damage to internal organs with no known cause. That bit was never reported to anyone outside the division responsible for the autopsy. For some reason or another, the police did not understand why only your fingerprints remained on the weapon. Despite having no evidence of foul play, they ruled it a double homicide and led an investigation that lasted for a year. It was later declared a cold case, and the supposed killer was never found. You knew it was because the killer died when you did.

Your parents did not handle your death well. Your father, after thirty years of sobriety, took up alcohol as his only comfort once again. Your mother, with not even one person to turn to, later divorced your father and left him to drown in his bottles while she remarried and began her life anew.

It didn’t take long for your dad to end up on the wrong side of an accident. He died seven months, two weeks, and four days after you, killed instantly in a head-on collision. Ironically, he wasn’t the one drunk when he was struck by another vehicle doing ninety into oncoming traffic.

Your mother, diagnosed with cancer not even ten months after your death, was declared terminal after six months of chemo. She died alone, one year, four months, one week, and six days after you, whilst her new husband lay with another woman in a hotel just down the street.

Many of your friends moved on with their lives after the mandatory grieving period on social media. Most of them were finished with school by this point, save for those who pursued a masters or doctorate. Several of them settled down and had kids, or adopted because their sexual preferences or identities didn’t allow for biological children. Some of them were killed in freak accidents. Some of them fell ill and died due to complications. A few of them ended up in prison. Two of your friends went on to teach at the university you’d chosen for yourself to begin the next phase of your life. One boy you knew committed suicide three years after graduation. One friend of yours went back and taught at the high school you graduated from. Another friend died of a drug overdose two weeks after your case was reported by national news stations for being “mysterious.”

Several houses on your street were renovated in all that time. Others were demolished and rebuilt. They tried to raze the old vacant house; each time the bulldozers were turned away by the city, or stopped working altogether. Some part of you took immense satisfaction in thwarting their efforts. Another part of you wished they would destroy the house and you. You couldn’t tell which desire was stronger.

Many families on your street moved away after the incident. When you were found, brutalized, those who lived in the immediate vicinity moved out within weeks. It didn’t take long for the rest of your former neighbors to follow suit after your mother and father died as well. Within four years, the street was occupied by new families that were either not aware of your death, or didn’t care enough to be deterred from the otherwise decent neighborhood.

You’d watched each of them arrive. Some at the beginning of a busy week, others during weekends. Most of the new arrivals popped up in the summers after your death. Several families would move in on the same day, quickly bonding as they walked back and forth between each other’s new homes with their kids in tow.

The block was soon overflowing with young children, all of them friendly with each other on account of the nearby elementary school they went to. Every day, you watched these children pass the house. Some days, they ignored it. Most days, at least one boy would be dared to touch the front door. Occasionally, a few girls would tag along. They would march right up to the door and knock on it, proving their bravery and winning the boys respect. You never interacted with the kids; you felt no need to. They were young and had their whole lives ahead of them. What benefit would come from scaring them, or leaving them with nightmares?

For many years, you remained completely uninvolved in the lives of the residents. You simply observed them. You witnessed kids grow older, parents become gray, and pets come and go. Those kids, their families? You couldn’t do anything but watch in fits of envy.

There wasn’t much for you to do anymore. As a spirit—one who lingered for all the regrets you’d had when you were alive—you were unable to interact with anything that wasn’t directly tied to you.

The house was what kept you from leaving. The journal that you had so carelessly destroyed was what kept you from resting in peace. And one living person kept you from moving on.

You knew now that the warnings that littered the margins of that book were indeed because of Lisa. As you remembered, she had been urging you to read its final pages over the last days of your life. She wanted you to see it—to understand that this fate could be avoided. She wanted you to know that you could have saved yourself.

The leatherbound journal that slowly but surely destroyed you over the last years of your life had been the conduit of a vicious cycle that flourished for decades. The presence of the druid tree made sense to you when this became known. The connection between the last one to possess the book and the next one to find it—that was the reason the symbol was used. It branded a sign of death on those who touched it. The ‘they’ that she had once referred to was everyone who had ever fallen victim to the book and its curse.

You often wondered if she felt similarly to the way you did now. Did she ever grow used to it? You guessed not; loneliness wasn’t something you ever grew used to when you were alive, less so when you were simply a spirit—a remnant of someone who ceased to exist.

Logically, there was nothing you could do about it now. You were dead. So you resigned yourself to this fate, just as Lisa had when it happened to her.

Your indifference continued for years. You cared not when a daring child would test the boundaries of your residence—for there was nothing threatening them here anymore, with the journal gone. You were cursed, yes, but the line would end with you. And so you allowed them to come and go as they pleased.

Time and seasons passed in a blur. Summers passed you by, winters came and went, springs flew by. Autumn fast approached, and before you knew it, October was upon you. As the end of the month neared, decorations popped up in the windows of homes. Pumpkins appeared on doorsteps, and families began to follow their All Hallows Eve traditions from around the world. On the afternoon of Halloween, whilst other kids waddled up and down the sidewalk in their costumes before going door to door, something caught your eye.

A tall, carefree young woman bounced gracefully down the mostly empty street in a white sundress, hair dyed the color of flames and smile wide as she took in the autumn sun. If you still had a heart, it would have stopped. The girl, with her small face and wildly untamable grin, stopped just short of the path to the vacant home. She seemed to be looking for something, scanning each part of the exterior like there was a secret to be found.

Eventually, her eyes rested on you. She knew you were there. You stared back, waiting— _begging_ —for a sign that she remembered. A sign that she knew the reason she lived, and you didn’t; a sign that she understood why her hand involuntarily came to rest over the heart that beat steadily between her ribs.

_The things still tied to you are what keep you here._

Just as a flicker of recognition passed over her features, she turned away, phone in hand and attention drawn somewhere else as she continued down the street.

As much as you wished she would have done otherwise, Lisa didn’t turn around again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea i had for an au with slight paranormal/supernatural elements, which then became a very long one-off lmao. Edited and re-posted from tumblr.
> 
> chat/submit requests on my blog! [@ blackpink-writes](https://blackpink-writes.tumblr.com/)


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